Each Life's Quest
by volta arovet
Summary: Marcello wants some way to hurt Angelo, Eight wants someone to save, but there are children being kidnapped and monsters to fight, so none of that really matters. Eight/Marcello of a sort, warnings for mild descriptions of sexual relations and violence
1. Chapter 1

**Each Life's Quest  
**

**_part one of five_**

_by volta_arovet_****

**_with many thanks to my beta, spacetart. Any and all mistakes or poorly worded sections are due to my ignoring her excellent suggestions.  
_**

* * *

Refuse finds its way to Pickham, and Marcello was no longer one to defy the tides. He had long ago lost access to his funds, and his coat, pocket watch, sword, and boots had been traded at unfair rates for food and drink. He looked at the wastrels in the streets and knew himself to be no better; no, he was even lower than the life long beggar, by virtue of having fallen from a much greater height.

The sole amusement left to him was that of invisibility. Men of the cloth (not in full dress, of course, but Marcello knew them as leaders, teachers, and those he had once considered friends) would pass him by and continue on their way to their preferred places of sin. Not one ever paused to look at him. He had a near infinite supply of blackmail material, had he any urge to return to the church. As it was, he was content to watch them, and to not be seen.

The mouse saw him, though. It skittered and scurried and scampered through the littered streets, stopping at Marcello's feet. If Marcello had known what was to follow, he would have crushed the little beast's head.

As it was, he offered it a small crumb of sour cheese and admired the neat way the mouse held it between its paws as it nibbled its breakfast. "Pretty thing," he crooned softly. "I imagine you're someone's pampered pet." He smiled fondly, lips cracking from the unfamiliar stretch. "A few days on these streets, and you will look as rough as I, mark my words."

The mouse finished its cheese and cocked its head, its apple seed eyes bright and curious. "Well, perhaps not if fools such as I keep giving pity to you," he added, and someone laughed.

The mouse skittered behind a pair of hard-used shoes, and Marcello glimpsed the tails of a long, yellow coat-a color so far removed from the templar's blues or the missionary's reds that he felt no compulsion to stop his gaze from rising.

It was the boy. Marcello had last seen him at the other end of a spear, at Angelo's side, but there was no mistaking that face with its damned kind, blank expression.

Marcello ducked his head, hiding his eyes behind a curtain of long, matted hair. That, the beard, and the lack of proper context had hidden him before. He had little hope it would help him now.

"Marcello," the boy said, and squatted down to his level. His knuckles rested in the filth of the street, and he didn't seem to mind.

"The hero," Marcello sneered. "Still out saving the world, are you?"

"I was looking for you," the boy said, smiling like he was genuinely pleased to see him.

"If you've come for charity, I want none of it," Marcello said, turning his face away. "If you've come to gloat, do be quick about it."

"Actually," the boy said, laying a hand on Marcello's arm. Marcello started violently, staring at the boy's hand. "I was hoping you'd help me with something."

Marcello let out a sharp laugh, throat sore from disuse. "You what?" The boy began to explain, but Marcello cut him off. "No, boy. I have no desire to help you, and no sword even if I did. I have nothing. Nothing! So leave me be with it, for you can take nothing more."

He removed the boy's hand from his arm, careful not to touch it any more than he had to, and looked away. He knew that the boy had left only by the sound of retreating footsteps.

The boy had left behind a small paper parcel-a loaf of bread, an apple, a small glass bottle of milk, still slightly cool. He considered dashing the boy's pity on the street's stones, but his stomach won over his pride. He expected the apple to taste like ash in his mouth, and was disappointed when it merely tasted sweet.

* * *

He woke two mornings later to the feel of whiskers tickling his ear. He sat upright, hand closing around a nearby stone before he recognized who it was.

"Not a wise thing to do to a sleeping man, beastie," he said, slowly setting the stone on the ground.

"His name's Munchie," the boy said. Marcello didn't look up.

"Also not wise, boy," Marcello said, hand tightening around the stone again.

"I brought a sword," the boy said, holding it out with both hands. Marcello raised an eyebrow. The boy had to be putting him on-no one could possibly be that sincere, that literal.

"Did you now?" Marcello asked. The boy offered it flat, pommel and blade resting on even hands. Marcello took it as he stood, giving the rapier a few reluctant swings and thrusts. "It's passable," Marcello proclaimed, handing it back the proper way-pommel first, blade pointed at his own chest.

As much as Marcello enjoyed damning with faint praise, his assessment was true. The blade was adequate, but only just, and yet still a step above the wrecks sold in Pickham.

The boy looked at him expectantly.

"And this should be enough to convince me?" Marcello asked.

"I won't tell Angelo," the boy said, and that should have hurt less than it did.

"Was that a threat?"

The boy shook his head. "I wouldn't tell him either way. There are children missing," he said in an apparent non sequitur.

"Are you trying to appeal to my better nature?" Marcello asked, disbelief evident on his face. "Do you think me that sort of man?"

"I think you want clean clothes and fresh food and something to do," the boy said, blank faced and plain. "And maybe an excuse."

"An excuse?"

"To stop living like this." The boy rubbed the back of his neck. "Or to do something that you don't think you deserve to do."

Marcello was gobsmacked. He leaned back against the stone wall, affecting an air of casual interest. "And what is it I want to do, boy?"

The boy shrugged. "I don't know. But I bet whatever it is, you're not doing it here."

Marcello was silent.

The boy held out a hand. "Come with me?"

Marcello folded his arms. "Fifty pieces a day and a better sword."

"I have food and some clothes and," the boy checked his pocket, "about...eighteen coins. Come anyway?"

"Has your king gone broke, or does he just not like you anymore?" Marcello asked, and was surprised at the sad look which crossed the boy's face. That was...interesting. "Very well. I suppose we can come to some accord."

The boy smiled brilliantly, and as Marcello shook his hand, he thought about how easy it was to make the boy sad, or smile, and that, if nothing else, would be something worth playing with.

* * *

There was no coin for a proper room, but the boy's tent was serviceable enough to shelter two, and the river would provide a fine, if bracing, bath.

The boy kept his back to him as Marcello washed and changed, which Marcello initially found amusing, and then later appreciated when the strong soap revealed stark ribs and sharp hipbones and a stomach that had sunk in too deep.

"What of these children?" Marcello asked as he shrugged on the shirt-plain, but clean and whole, which was more than he could say for his old clothes.

"The first disappeared about two months ago," the boy said, fiddling with some camp equipment, back still modestly turned toward Marcello. "There are some dangerous animals in the area, and sometimes children get lost, but... A week later, another child disappeared. There was never any blood, they didn't find any bits of clothing, or...parts."

"Kidnapping, then?" Marcello mused. He pulled at his hair and winced. "Do you have a comb?" The boy held out a chipped-tooth strip of metal, blindly aiming in Marcello's direction. "You may turn around; I'm perfectly decent, you know."

"If they've been kidnapped, they haven't been sold." Marcello spared a moment of hacking at his hair to raise an inquisitive eyebrow. "I know someone who-well, she runs in those kinds of circles, and she'd notice any new children."

"You have an interesting talent for making unusual friends," Marcello said, and one of the comb's teeth broke loose in a knot. "Oh, this is useless. Have you any scissors?"

The boy brought a pair over, but Marcello didn't take them. He motioned to the back of his head. "Short as you like, but try to make it passably neat," he ordered. He expected the boy to be hesitant, but the scissors were quick and confident as the weight fell from Marcello's head. "The children?" Marcello prompted.

"The last one was taken about a week ago. Some invader knocked a hole in the wall. It grabbed a child and escaped." The clip of the scissors slowed for a moment. "He was only six."

"How many children in total?"

"Seven. All boys between six and nine."

Marcello swore. "And the constabulary?"

The boy hesitated. "Not...helpful," he said, a little break in his voice.

"Suspiciously so?"

The boy didn't answer, and busied himself with neatening up Marcello's hair. That was as good a confirmation as any.

"Right. So we are dealing with a monster of great enough size and strength to capture and carry a child without struggle, potential involvement of those in the child trade, and the apparent tacit approval of local authorities in regard to the former." Marcello swore again. "Throw in a connection to the church and you'd be facing a threat from every possible category. No wonder you required assistance."

"Are you still willing to help?" the boy asked. He blew the stray hairs from Marcello's ears and neck, sending unpleasant shivers up his spine. It had been many years since he had felt a breeze there.

"Perhaps. My question is this: considering that children are involved and the type of danger they face, why the devil isn't Angelo with you?"

"I didn't ask him," the boy said.

"What?" Marcello turned his head, and the scissors clipped his ear. "Ouch!"

"Sorry!" The boy licked a thumb and pinched Marcello's ear until it stopped bleeding.

"You didn't ask him," Marcello repeated.

The boy moved to clip Marcello's sideburns-an act of initiative Marcello approved of, even as it made talking more difficult. "I didn't."

"I find it strange he wouldn't come on his own," Marcello said, and wondered if the boy's small frown was at the conversation or because he was concentrating on his task. "He never was one to wait for permission."

"He doesn't know."

Marcello snorted. "What, have you stopped talking? Are you no longer friends?" He lowered his eyes slyly. "Has he broken your heart, like one of his doxies?"

"Don't talk," the boy commanded, and Marcello was almost stunned into silence.

"I beg your-"

"I don't want to cut you again," the boy said, moving his scissors to the sensitive area over Marcello's lips. He couldn't tell if it was a threat or a courtesy. For all his openness, or perhaps because of it, the boy was impossible to read at times. "Angelo's my friend, but he has his orphanage now. And Jessica has her town, and Yangus has Red, and if I asked any of them, they would leave their homes and help me, every time."

The boy's face was close, puffs of breath tickling Marcello's lips whenever he spoke. "That's why I can't ask them."

"Don't you have-"

"Hold still," the boy said. "And no, I don't." The boy's eyes were dark, and Marcello decided that further questioning would be better served on another day.

The boy finished his work and stepped back, eyeing Marcello with an artist's flair.

"Do I look at all like myself?" Marcello asked, resisting the urge to squirm under the scrutiny.

The boy smiled and shook his head. "No, but. It should be fine."

Marcello swung his head a few times, testing the strange lack of weight, and the boy's smile widened. "Mirror," he said, holding out a hand, and the boy quickly gave him a small shaving glass. "It will do," Marcello said, pensively stroking his beard. "Very well, then. Since you've proved I can trust you to not make me look a fool, can I trust you to lead me to the village without losing our way?"

The boy beamed and slung his pack on his back. "It's about half a day's walk this way."

Marcello waved a hand, saying, "Lead on." The boy did.

* * *

That night, staring at the tent's ceiling while the boy breathed lightly beside him, Marcello reflected that the boy had lied. The journey should have been one hour's task, two at a leisurely stroll, and yet it had taken far longer for Marcello, even with the boy carrying the brunt of the water and equipment.

He had done so without comment or complaining, even creating polite fictions such as a loose shoelace or a strap that needed buckling whenever Marcello grew dizzy from the effort.

The boy had watched him in that miserable, gray town. He had watched Marcello inspect the shoddily-repaired barrier, watched him speak to a bereaved mother who for some reason avoided the boy, watched him as he himself watched the children playing tag, girls outnumbering boys, their shrieks a little too shrill for normal play. All this time, he had watched Marcello-not approving, not judging, just watching.

A girl had fallen during her play; the boy had picked her up and brushed off her knees, tucking a sweet into her hand before she even had time to cry. The mothers had quickly ushered their children away from him, and they had left shortly after that.

"They don't trust me," was all the boy had to say about it, and it was that point that Marcello had labeled every last villager as an idiot.

Marcello thought about the boy, how he frightened away weak monsters so they wouldn't have to fight, how he had prepared supper while Marcello slept off the strain of the journey, how he had forgotten to buy a second fork or spoon, but had thought to buy arm garters so Marcello's loose sleeves wouldn't hinder his swordplay.

"You're a genuinely good man," Marcello said aloud, a bit of awe creeping into his voice. "I didn't think anyone like that still lived, and yet here you are, boy."

"Eight," the boy said, and Marcello was only half-surprised that he was still awake.

"Pardon?"

"Not 'boy.' Eight," the boy clarified, and Marcello blinked at the ceiling.

"That's not your name," Marcello said at last. He was almost entirely certain about that point.

"No, but it's. Closer," the boy-Eight-said in a tone that closed off further inquiry.

"Eight it is, then," Marcello said, and listened as Eight's breathing slipped into the slow, steady pattern of sleep.

He was stranger than he appeared, Marcello thought, and certainly more interesting than one would guess at first glance, but at heart, he was still a genuinely good man, perhaps the only good friend his brother had ever had.

And so, as Marcello matched his breathing to Eight's and drifted off to sleep, he plotted half a dozen ways to drag the boy down.


	2. Chapter 2

**Each Life's Quest  
**

**_part two of five_**

_by volta_arovet_

**_with many thanks to my beta, spacetart. Any and all mistakes or poorly worded sections are due to my ignoring her excellent suggestions._**

**_

* * *

_**

The morning found Eight fixing breakfast over the fire, quietly singing a half-remembered song to himself. A map lay on the ground, pinned at the corners by some rocks. It was the one he had given the boy when they first met, Marcello realized with a start. More battered, with dirt-smudged edges and rough marks in red pencil. So little of that time remained, but here was a piece, hard-used but cared for, and Marcello stopped himself before he indulged anymore in maudlin sentimentality.

Besides, breakfast was cooked, and the idea of starting the day with something other than dry cheese and sour beer appealed to him on a level that verged on decadence. The bacon had tantalized his nose, but something in the eggs made his stomach sit up and say 'yes please, more of that, quick as you can.' That must have shown on his face, because Eight was putting more eggs on the pan before he could even ask, and he-

"Are you laughing at me?" Marcello asked with as much dignity as he could muster. He wiped at his face to see if a bit of yolk had stuck to his chin.

Eight utterly failed at looking innocent despite his cherubic face, and his shoulders shook as he poked the cooking eggs. Marcello rolled his eyes and concentrated on his food, nearly missing Eight's beatific smile as he slid the eggs onto his plate.

"Oh, really, what?" Marcello said, exasperated.

"Just...nice to see you eat," Eight said, in such a motherly way that Marcello was embarrassed on his behalf.

"You'll make a good wife for someone someday," Marcello said, and he definitely didn't imagine that bit of hurt in Eight's eyes, which was...interesting. Perhaps the rumors were true, then.

He pondered this as they ate in silence, turning his thoughts to more practical matters only as he used a scrap of bread to sop up the remnant of the egg and sucked the last bit of grease from his thumb.

Marcello looked at the red penciled marks on the map and frowned. "Let me guess: you've checked the most likely spots for large hidey-holes, and have been taking random guesses ever since?"

Eight had the graciousness to look a little guilty.

"Right then," Marcello said, stealing the pencil and wetting it on his tongue. He sketched a close circle about the town and another several kilometers around the first. He quickly slashed it into six equal parts. "We start here and do a thorough sweep of each area in crossing patterns, like so." He marked one up with a diamond grid. "Every fifth day or so, we should walk a perimeter about the town to check for possible movements of our beast."

Eight was bent over his shoulder, and Munchie was examining the map with an equal level of care. "It sounds...slow," he said, and smiled to soften the criticism.

Marcello did some mental calculations-five to six days per section, time for checking the town and buying supplies, time for weather and accidents and unforeseen circumstances, but odds were likely they'd find the beast before the last section. "A month," he estimated, "perhaps a half more at the outside. But," he held up a finger to stall Eight's complaint. "It is a definite month. And if we reach the end without finding our beast, we will know without question that it does not live here. Time is, as always, the price for certainty."

Eight blew a stray hair from his nose and stood up. "Okay, let's go."

Marcello sat where he was. "You're not happy."

Eight shrugged helplessly "I just wish-"

"Yes, well, if wishes could be granted simply by the asking, our world would be a much different place."

Eight paused at this, face brightening, then shook his head. "No, it probably wouldn't work again."

Marcello blinked a few times. He braced his hands on his knees, leveraging himself to his feet as he tried not to groan like an old man. "It sounds like there's a story in that. Tell me as we search?"

The boy smiled again, predictably, and they set off together.

* * *

The story had been anything but predictable, and would have been utterly unbelievable if told by anyone other than the ridiculously earnest boy. It matched what he had learned of Arcadia's recent history, and though there were a few pauses and holes in the story, the holes were Angelo-shaped and meant that Eight was being soft-hearted, not untruthful.

Eight was looking a bit more mournful, eyes darker and more soulful, than he had in the morning. Marcello wondered if it was because of the very small square on the map they had marked off, or if the boy was generally disapproving of the two bunnicorns Marcello had managed to slay before the boy scared them away. Apparently, the boy's maternal instincts didn't extend far enough to condoning the slaughter of demi-innocent creatures for the sake of Marcello's stomach.

It was as good a time to dig as any, Marcello thought as he carefully skinned the hare. "Don't look so glum," he chided slyly. "You'll make me think I'm poor company."

Eight startled, his hands fumbling the boomerang and whetstone. "Sorry. I was just thinking."

"Of the day's progress? Or perhaps of something, or someone, a bit farther away?"

The boy scraped his boomerang a bit harder, the tips of his ears turning red.

"You needn't be so shy about it. Half the kingdom knows that you're completely mad for each other," Marcello said. "Even I heard the story of the young knight who stole the princess on her wedding day."

The boy continued sharpening the boomerang in silence.

"Of course, what came after that is a bit of a mystery to me. I'm certain that news of a second wedding would have reached Pickham, and yet-"

"Ow!" Eight said, and stuck his thumb in his mouth.

Marcello tsked. "You get quite clumsy sometimes, don't you?" Marcello finished skinning the rabbit and set about cleaning his hands. "Isn't this a funny world, where a man may save everyone from certain doom, and yet is still unworthy to marry a princess by virtue of his birth."

Eight sucked mournfully on his thumb, and Marcello believed that he had scored a point.

"It's my fault, I'm afraid," Marcello continued, and Eight looked surprised, eyes wide as a babe's. "The world was poised to accept a man on the basis of his accomplishments, his character, and when I found myself in that rare position, I squandered my chance and confirmed their base suspicions."

He finished cleaning the blood from his hands and admired the way his white cuffs looked against his pristine skin.

"I don't apologize for anything I have done," Marcello was quick to clarify, "not the lies or the bribes or locking you and yours in that dungeon, but it is unfortunate that, having failed, I have made things more difficult for good men like yourself. Now give me your thumb."

Eight blinked three times.

"Come now," Marcello said, gently tugging Eight's thumb from his mouth. It met the air with an audible pop. "Even if you hate me, you can still concede that it is impossible for a man to wrap his own thumb with any skill."

"I don't hate you," Eight said, almost automatically, and Marcello's smirk twisted into a grimace as he bandaged the boy's thumb. The boy was nauseatingly sincere.

"More the fool you," Marcello muttered.

"I think you were wrong," Eight said, even quieter, "and I think you were cruel, but I don't hate you."

"Do you hate anyone?" Marcello asked, and Eight hesitated. "Then it means nothing," he said, and finished wrapping the boy's thumb.

Marcello walked, very calmly, to the tent, ostensibly to rest, and instead glared at the ceiling. He lay there and thought until the greasy scent of cooked rabbit roused his hunger, drifting into the tent like an undeserved apology.

* * *

After a week, with one section of the map fully explored and a fair portion of the next colored in, Marcello began to believe that the boy really, truly was as good a person as he appeared to be.

He had tried every tactic he knew to get a rise out of the boy. He had insulted and cast doubt upon Eight's friends. He had wondered aloud about the princess's virtue in the eyes of her people, and whether they were already arranging another marriage for her. He had even spent an entire day in that terrible, gray town and let the boy endure their cold disdain for supposedly ruining a princess's honor.

All of this, the boy took with a sad smile and a quiet determination. The worst he showed was a flash of irritation at their slow progress, a hint of despair when he mentioned the princess or the missing children, but Marcello couldn't find any crack he could use to reach in and tear the boy apart. It was quite annoying that someone so seemingly open and simple could be so impenetrable. The best he had accomplished was teaching the mouse how to catch bits of cheese in its paws.

On the tenth day, Marcello changed both his sword and his plan.

The sword was an easy matter, in theory. The volpone had dashed out of the bushes, struck a roguish pose, and barked, "en garde!"

Marcello took one look at the fox's rapier, superior to his in every aspect, and smiled.

The volpone was quick and danced nimbly, but Marcello had years of training on his side and a greater motivation, and within moments the fox was braced on the wood's floor with Marcello's blade at its throat. Marcello pulled the killing blow out of deference to Eight's tender heart.

"Avast!" the fox cried, its feathered cap sliding over its eyes.

"Your sword," Marcello demanded, holding out his free hand.

The fox narrowed its eyes and growled, clutching its sword to its chest.

"Your sword," Marcello said slowly, "or your life."

The fox appeared to weigh the benefits and detriments of each option. Marcello sighed and lifted the fox by the scruff of its neck. "My companion," he swung the fox to face Eight, who was hiding a smile in his sleeve, "is a soft-hearted fool who would prefer that you leave this encounter alive. I," he turned the fox so he and it were nose-to-nose, "on the other hand, care not a whit so long as I have your sword in the end. So I ask again: your sword, or your life?"

"La mort avant déshonneur!" the fox cried, and twisted in Marcello's grip. Marcello swore and struggled to hold onto it. The fox swung its sword ineffectively while Marcello tried to hold it still, and neither one could get a good purchase on the other. Eight assisted by collapsing to the ground in a helpless pile of giggles.

Marcello managed to pin the fox's arms to its sides by holding it in a bear hug against his chest.

"If you could please grab its sword?" Marcello grunted. Eight looked up at him and their eyes locked for an instant, and Marcello was shocked at the warmth and affection and-

"Oh," Marcello thought, and nearly dropped the fox.

Eight neatly removed the sword from its paws, and Marcello encouraged it on its retreat with a light kick to its seat.

"Thank you," Eight said as he handed Marcello the rapier. "For not killing it," he expanded when Marcello gave him a puzzled look.

"You've become quite the good influence on me," Marcello said, and laughed it off as a joke when the boy colored.

He tested the sword once or twice before turning back to the boy. "Thank you," he said, lightly gripping the boy's arm.

"For the sword?" Eight asked.

Marcello laughed and said, "That too," and continued down their path with such a light step that the boy had to scramble to keep up.

* * *

Marcello tested his theory that evening. It was a plan with all the subtlety and licentiousness of Angelo's dalliances, he reflected darkly, but he put that distasteful comparison aside when he admitted that, for the most part, Angelo's tactics had worked.

Eight was playing with Munchie, tossing it bits of cheese it could catch with its paws if it jumped. Marcello had been the one to teach it that trick, but the mouse performed more enthusiastically for the boy, and Marcello couldn't blame it. Their laundry was drying by the fire, and as it was a warm night, Marcello hadn't cared to replace his shirt or socks.

He hefted his sword and walked to the far edge of the fire. It was folly to go into battle with an untested sword, of course, and there were few who would question running through some standard maneuvers.

He ran through the introductory movements with a precision that bordered on miserly. No thrust went too deep, no stretch went too far, not an excess moment was wasted on holding a stance or preparing an action. Marcello was no peacock on display, strutting about with a keen desire to be watched. He focused entirely on the form, and if Eight watched, then so be it. The movements had been drilled into him from a young age, and Marcello held a quiet confidence in the surety of his footwork, the strength of his shoulders, the control in his wrists.

Munchie made a high-pitched chittering noise, the kind he made when Marcello wasn't keeping up to speed with the cheese. Marcello's triumphant smirk was hidden by his next turn, showing Eight the perfect line of his back.

"It's a good sword," he said at last, holstering it and moving to sit beside Eight. The boy nodded, looking at the fire. "It's been a good day, for all that we've not accomplished our goal." The boy nodded again, smiling a little smile-remembering the fox's antics and Marcello's indignities, no doubt. "For all my initial misgivings, for all the sadness of our mission, I find myself glad to have a purpose again."

The boy's eyes were warm and dark, his lips soft at the corners, and it was surprisingly easy for Marcello to say in a low voice, "I think I fancy you."

The boy whipped his head up, and Marcello wished he had an artist's touch because the wide eyes and slack jaw were so perfectly comical it was a waste that he was the only one to see it.

Marcello gave a crooked smile and a little half shrug, as if to say 'it is what it is.'

Eight's smile widened until it was the most brilliant one Marcello had ever seen, and when he leaned in, it tasted like victory.


	3. Chapter 3

**Each Life's Quest  
**

**_part three of five_**

_by volta_arovet_

**_with many thanks to my beta, spacetart. Any and all mistakes or poorly worded sections are due to my ignoring her excellent suggestions._**

**_

* * *

_**

The boy slept peacefully, deeply, abandoning himself to dreams as freely as a child. He sprawled on his back, arms and legs spread wide, one arm thrown across Marcello's chest. The boy had always been so careful not to touch him at night, so courteous not to invade his space. Now, even his subconscious seemed to trust Marcello.

The deed itself had been what Marcello expected. It wasn't far removed from the remembered dalliances of his youth, perhaps a bit less hurried, a bit more playful than before, but that might be attributed to their age and the fact that they weren't limited to a few stolen moments in a church's alcove.

There was something there, though, in the foolish way Eight nipped at his chin, the reverent way his hands smoothed Marcello's thighs. It wouldn't take much to push the boy into falling in love, and then...

"Hello," Eight said, smiling shyly, his eyes still closed.

"Eight?" Marcello asked hesitantly. He hadn't noticed the boy waking up.

"How are you and the king?" Eight asked, and Marcello frowned.

Eight laughed sadly. "I'm...sorry. No, I know, but I am."

Eight paused again. "No luck on either search. I believe we'll find the children, or the monster, within a month, but I think I've lost the dragon."

Another pause. "It's not your fault." Eight's face twisted into an extremely awkward expression. "Good. He's...he's good," and Marcello knew beyond a doubt that the boy was speaking about him. "I think this journey was good for him."

It was so condescending Marcello was tempted to smack the boy awake-if he weren't so curious about what else the boy would say to his dream princess.

"I should-no, never mind," the boy said quickly. Obfuscating in his sleep, Marcello thought with a smirk. Was he so ashamed of this, even while he dreamed?

"I don't think I can," the boy continued, and he looked the most miserable Marcello had ever seen him. "You too," he said quietly, and his expression slipped away until he held nothing but the blankness of sleep.

That had been as interesting as it was enlightening, and as enlightening as it was confusing, Marcello thought. At the very least, it demonstrated that the boy had been hurt by the loss of the princess. He estimated that it would only take one more drastic heartbreak to turn the lad from tragic and sad to bitter and jaded.

With that pleasant thought dancing through his head, Marcello drifted off to sleep.

* * *

When Marcello woke the next morning, he wondered if anything had changed. The boy was still up before him, still cooking breakfast as he sang a quiet little song to himself. The mouse turned up its nose and presented its back to him-that was new, if not entirely unexpected. It was probably miffed at how it had been turned out of the tent last night, but no one could be blamed for not wanting the little beast watching them.

The thought brought another little detail to Marcello's notice; when Eight shifted, he could see a little dark mark on his neck, just beyond his collar. The sight of it made Marcello's stomach roil in a way that was almost like hunger.

Marcello shook it off, grumbling a "Good morning."

Eight grinned at him and continued cooking, singing to himself, "Something something silver shoe, to the something something something moon."

"I don't know that song," Marcello said, for want of something to say.

"Neither do I," Eight said, and shared a helpless laugh with Marcello.

"There you go," Eight said, sliding a pair of greasy eggs and bacon onto Marcello's plate. He leaned over and pecked Marcello on the lips to punctuate the gesture.

Judging by Eight's reaction, Marcello was certain his expression was somewhere between 'confused' and 'gobsmacked.'

"Sorry," Eight began, "did I-"

Marcello pulled him in for a deliberate, slow kiss, and didn't let go until Eight was the one looking somewhat dazed. "Unexpected," he said, feeling the boy's panting breaths on his lips, "not unwanted." He gave one final peck and released his hold on Eight's neck.

If Eight's silly grin were any indication, he was well on his way to falling in love with Marcello, and it did not even occur to him to wonder about the other way round.

* * *

Both of them had agreed without saying that their relationship was a thing of the camp, and should not interfere with their search. This worked, for the most part, although he had found it hard to hold back when Eight had found evidence of a large animal's passing, and Eight had brightened with hope and-

Or later, when the creature had not been what they were looking for, and Eight had-

To be fair, Marcello had caught Eight speculatively eyeing a soft patch of moss after a particularly dashing swordfight with a volpone, so he wasn't the only one with this problem.

The mouse still hadn't forgiven him, but Marcello was starting to give that up as a lost cause.

So Marcello waited until the evening of the day they had completed the third section-the halfway point-and Eight was lying sleepy and pliable beside him, before he asked.

"Is this," he couldn't find a diplomatic word for the boy's preferences, so he smoothed a hand down Eight's back, "ithis/i the reason why you left your princess? Or she left you?"

"No," Eight said, and hummed to himself in thought. His face was pillowed in the crook of his arm, eyes closed, and Marcello was close to declaring it the most unhelpful answer ever when Eight said, so quietly Marcello barely heard him, "I don't know who I am."

Marcello mulled over this statement for a moment, rolling it about in his mind and trying to determine what the boy meant. "In what way?"

"I don't remember anything from before the day I woke up in the gardens at Trodain Castle. Not my family, my name, not-not anything," Eight said. "All I had was Munchie. It didn't really bother me then-I was too busy learning everything at first, and when I finally had time to think, I'd already made a new family at the castle. So it didn't matter, except-"

"Except that it did," Marcello finished for him. "It mattered like that song you can't remember, like the way that curses seem to bounce off you-yes, I've noticed, don't think me blind."

"So there was this dragon," Eight said, a little brighter.

"A dragon," Marcello repeated.

"It said if I could follow its path and defeat its forms, it would tell me about my past, only, it took longer than I'd thought, and I'd promised the princess to escort her to her wedding, so I left the path." The boy sounded so forlorn, Marcello could guess the end to that story.

"Then once that was done, you left your princess in order to find the path, and now you have neither," Marcello concluded.

"She told me to go," Eight mumbled as he turned his face into his arm. Marcello tousled his hair as a matter of course.

"May the Goddess protect us from princesses with noble intentions," Marcello intoned, but Eight didn't laugh. Marcello sighed and scruffed Eight's hair again. "Perhaps it's not such a bad thing, not knowing. I can't help but feel that my childhood would have been much happier without my-without knowing my past."

"If you could choose to forget everything, would you?" Eight suddenly looked up at him, and Marcello felt once again surprised at how dark the boy's eyes were.

"Would you have preferred to meet an empty shell in Pickham?" Marcello mused. "No, I have earned my scars. Let me wear them. Aren't you the same way?"

Eight looked puzzled at this.

"You've lived many more years here than wherever you were before, I wager," Marcello reasoned. "Can you imagine anything you could have done as a child that would change the man you have become today?"

Eight pursed his lips and appeared to seriously think this over, bobbing his head in while he seemingly played through the different scenarios in his imagination. "I could be a monster or, or something like Rhapthorne," he mused slowly. He looked back up at Marcello and gave him a weak smile. "Or a noble you'd hate. Or-"

Marcello snorted. "And upon the discovery that you are indeed a demon, you shall finally understand the horns protruding from your forehead and your unending thirst for the blood of the innocents-I apologize; that last comment was in poor taste," Marcello quickly corrected himself.

Eight smiled anyway. "Are you, are you trying to tell me I shouldn't be scared? Because I'm not, I-"

"I'm saying it doesn't matter," Marcello spoke over him. "Your past, your family-you are free of it, and should be gladly so. So put it from your mind and think of the future instead."

It was quiet after that, and Marcello was almost asleep when he heard Eight say, low and petulant, "I still want to know," but it was easy for Marcello to pretend to be asleep, and soon enough, he was.

* * *

Three days passed. Three mornings where Eight fixed breakfast without the half-remembered cooking song, three days of fruitless searching and quiet grumbles at their lack of progress, three nights where Eight was curled up and asleep before Marcello could think to join him.

Marcello hadn't thought the boy capable of a long-term sulk-a month earlier, Marcello probably wouldn't have recognized it as such-but Eight was proving himself a master of the act. Even the mouse had increased its hostilities, changing from merely ignoring him to snapping at his fingers when he offered it a piece of cheese.

Marcello wished he could blame his headache on the storm clouds which had rolled in the day before and were refusing to break.

On the fourth night, when Eight again looked at their map and again wondered aloud why the search was taking so long, Marcello snapped, "Are you in such a hurry to get back to your dragon? I'm surprised you haven't left me to chase it already."

Eight's frown deepened. "That's not what I-"

"Because it seems to me that you abandoned your path for your princess, and you abandoned your princess to chase your dragon, and you abandoned your dragon to hunt this monster," Marcello continued. "It's a wonder you've accomplished anything at all without the Goddess's help."

"That's not-"

Marcello was on his feet. He couldn't stop the words, and he could feel that he was only inches from breaking Eight's heart, and the thrill tasted sour. "Most people get at best ione/i quest in their lives, ione/i thing they spend years working and fighting and bleeding for-"

"Excuse me," a voice said-young, female, unfamiliar. Marcello's mouth clamped shut, swallowing back his words. He recognized the girl from the gray village, but there were tear stains on her cheeks and leaves tangled in her long, loose hair.

"Can we...help you?" Marcello asked.

"My brother," she said, bent over to catch her breath.

Eight was already on his feet, throwing sand on the fire and grabbing his pack. Marcello was right behind him.

"He has been taken?" Marcello asked. The girl nodded. "How long has it been?"

"Two-three hours, perhaps," the girl said. Marcello swore. "It took time to slip away from the village, and-and, you are not easy to find." There was a little bite in her voice at that, and Marcello enjoyed the increased spirit, even as he bristled at the implied accusation.

"Do you hear that, Eight? There is at least one person in the village who does not think us kidnappers and thieves," Marcello called, to Eight's poor humor. "Let's go, girl. Little more time to waste with so much already spent."

"My name is Anna. My brother is Tomas," the girl said as she hiked up her skirts and trekked back to the town. "He's ten years old."

"I'm sorry," Eight murmured.

"Did you see who did this?" Marcello asked.

"Only the back of it, and only a glimpse. It was large, and yellow." She frowned, trying to remember more details.

"A dumbking, perhaps?" Marcello asked. Despite its name, they were one of the more intelligent species of beasts, not that it said much. What one would want with a human boy, he couldn't fathom.

Anna shook her head. "No, it was twice the size of any I've seen."

"A pot dragon?" Marcello tried, and frowned. He sniffed at the air-it was heavy and damp, with not a hint of smoke. "One that would venture out in weather like this? I shudder to think."

"We should hurry," Eight said, and passed them by. It was normally a half hour's walk to the village from their current campsite. At this rate, they would make it in twenty minutes.

The rain started in ten.

It rained in sheets, as if some spirit had sliced the sky's belly and all the water spilled out at once. They were soaked through in a matter of seconds, and the rain had grown stronger still by the time they reached the village wall.

"It broke through here," Anna said, shouting to be heard over the rain. "And it ran through those trees." She pointed in the direction that was, sadly, the straightest path away from the village. Marcello noticed that her hand shook while she was pointing, and her lips had taken on a blue tinge.

He put a hand on her shoulder. "Go home, girl. You've done enough here."

She was shivering, but she had the strength to grab his hand and hold it tight. "Find my brother," she said, staring him fiercely in the eyes.

"We will," Eight said softly, his voice almost covered by the pounding rain. She nodded at that, then turned and ran back through the gap in the wall.

"You shouldn't have told her that," Marcello shouted as he looked bleakly at the puddles of mud drowning the grass. "She's the sort who'll expect the boy and a mile-long parade by the morning." Which was completely untrue, but Eight was glaring at the hole with such intensity that Marcello would say anything to distract him.

Eight shot him a look, blurred by the rain, and set off into the forest. He inspected the trees, the mud, anything that might give a sign as to where the beast had gone. It was useless work, Marcello knew that. There was no way to tell if a branch had been rent by the beast or the wind, and the rain had made the ground a sodden marsh. It was impossible to tell where they themselves had stepped a minute ago, never mind where the beast had trod all those hours ago.

But they spread out and searched, and Marcello found himself emptying puddles in hopes they would turn into footprints, and seeing trees with claw marks that were just the patterns of the bark. He didn't know how long they searched-the sun had long since set, and he counted time by the footstep, the false clue, the number of times rain built in his beard and made him sneeze.

They made it to a clearing, and Marcello was momentarily cheered by the evidence that something had been here-until he quickly realized that this was their own campsite, and what he had thought a claw mark was a misaimed throw of Eight's boomerang.

"We have to stop," Marcello said, and stifled another sneeze. "We aren't going to find them tonight, not like this, in the dark, in the rain."

Eight continued to walk on, as if he hadn't heard Marcello.

"We'll start again tomorrow," Marcello said, taking hold of Eight's wrist. "Please," he added, and Eight softened, or at least stopped moving away.

Marcello led Eight to the tent; he wasn't sure if Eight was stumbling or offering a token resistance. His face was blank, unreadable. Marcello couldn't even tell if he was crying. He didn't even know if he thought Eight icould/i cry.

Marcello fumbled with his clothes, hands cold-numbed and stupid, and noticed Eight staring at his buttons mournfully, as if all his problems would be solved if only he could unwrap the mystery of how buttons worked. Something about that dull, blank look made Marcello want to hit him, so he grabbed Eight and kissed him, instead, hard and deliberate.

He kissed him, and he pushed, and he pushed harder and harder until Eight was flat on his back, until Eight was pushing back, just as hard.


	4. Chapter 4

**Each Life's Quest  
**

**_part four of five_**

_by volta_arovet_

**_with many thanks to my beta, spacetart. Any and all mistakes or poorly worded sections are due to my ignoring her excellent suggestions._**

**_

* * *

_**

Marcello woke to a world that was bright and yellow, partly from the morning's sunshine lighting up the tent, but mostly from the yellow coat that was still clenched in his fist. It was odd-he didn't normally curl up on his side, or hold things while he slept. Then again, he didn't normally spend his time participating in activities like the previous night's.

He stretched his back and winced at the bruising he could feel there. He couldn't quite remember who had been upset-was it Eight or himself? The mind played tricks.

Marcello made his bleary way out of the tent, bringing the coat with him and half-heartedly trying to smooth the wrinkles from it, when he looked up and was struck by what he saw.

It was like any other morning, really. Eight was frying breakfast on the fire, singing a simple, half-remembered song to himself. Munchie was sitting beside him, nibbling a piece of bread. The mouse noticed him and chittered in a way that would be intimidating for anything less than a hand's width in height. Eight gently chided the mouse, laughing all the while, and turned to Marcello to share his smile.

Everything was the same, except that without his coat, the boy was wearing blue, a deep, Templar's blue, and Marcello's chest hurt at the sight.

He wanted to-he didn't want to break that smile, he discovered. Maybe this would be enough. Maybe it would simply be enough to show Angelo this, show him how this boy smiled for him, how the bruises on his thighs were fit to Marcello's fingers, how this boy, the best person in Angelo's life, cared more for Marcello than he did for Angelo. Perhaps. Perhaps that would be enough.

And perhaps he wasn't the sort of man who regretted what he had done, but perhaps he was the sort of man who wished that he could. And he would think more on that, but the morning was growing long, and Eight was waiting.

"How are you faring?" Marcello asked, and Eight colored nicely at the question.

"Better. Thank you," Eight said, and took the coat from him.

"We'll shift our search to the section nearest the beast's last sighting," Marcello directed as he helped himself to breakfast. "No reason not to take advantage of the little hint it left us. If we've no luck there, we can return and finish this section later. If the boy's half as clever as his sister, he should have left us some clue."

Eight smiled at him again, and Marcello found himself hoping that they would not find the beast, or that he would have at least as much time as it would take for the wrinkles to fall out of Eight's yellow coat.

* * *

They found the shoe two days later. It was sitting in a pile of debris, and was just the right size for a ten-year-old boy's foot.

"Clever boy," Marcello said, examining the shoe. "See how the back is scuffed? He kicked it off, to give us a path." He tossed it to Eight and got out his map, tracing a line from the village to the shoe. "We know, at the very least, that the beast passed by this way. Probably rested here; I doubt the boy could have done this while the beast was on the move."

"No," Eight said, and his dark eyes were shining in a way Marcello hadn't seen for many days. "It looks like the shoe was washed here by the rain. But if we follow it back..." Eight bolted up the hill, eyes trained on the ground, and Marcello had to struggle to gather his things and follow before the boy was out of sight. The boy was good at tracking, he'd give him that-the line of the leaves and shape of the mud were as road maps to him, so Marcello took it upon himself to check the surroundings for the beast's crossing path.

He held Eight up short when they rounded a hill. There was a battered old shack at its top, and a horse's footprint in the mud at its base. He motioned to Eight to be quiet, and crept carefully up the hill. Eight circled around the other way. It was a touch silly, being so cautious-the shack was only large enough for one, maybe two people, but it was their best lead so far, and Marcello wasn't going to risk it.

There was nothing inside, not a chair, not a footprint, no evidence of anyone staying there ever, never mind in the past few days. There were holes in the walls, and Marcello could see Eight's face through one of them. Rather than being disappointed, the boy was biting his lip, frowning as though deep in thought.

He motioned for Marcello to leave the shack and, once he did, closed the door behind him, raised a fist, and knocked briskly on the door three times.

Marcello gave Eight a look. "What exactly was that supposed to accomplish?"

Eight shrugged sheepishly, and it was then that the entire shack lifted up and a large, yellow beast with a lolling, pink tongue stuck its head out of the hole.

"Well hello there, dearies," it said in a cheerful, motherly voice. "Do forgive my head-were you expected for company?"

Marcello shared a look with Eight and removed his hand from his sword. He bowed modestly. "Yes, thank you, madam."

"Oh! Aren't you the polite one! And so handsome, too." She gave Marcello a winsome wink and descended down the hole. "Please, make yourselves at home; I'm going to go put the kettle on."

They followed the beast down the stairs and settled themselves in a surprisingly homey drawing room. There were flowered curtains on windows that opened to nothing but dirt, lace doilies on the backs of the chairs, and children's toys scattered in the corners of the room.

"A dumb_queen_?" Marcello whispered to Eight in disbelief.

Eight shrugged in a manner that said he was philosophically at ease with the idea of her existence, given his contact with dumbkings.

"It looks as though there were children here," Marcello said, eyeing the toys, but had no time to investigate further.

"Here you go, dearies," the dumbqueen said, bustling back with a tray of goodies. She had a pink, lacy apron tied over her enormous bosom. "I brought some biscuits with the chocolate bits. They're my favorite. How do you take your tea?"

"As it is, thank you," Marcello said, taking the proffered cup.

"Sugar, please," Eight said, and held up three fingers to indicate how many lumps. Marcello wept inwardly for the dignity of good, innocent tea so unfairly abused.

"Oh ho, I should have known, you two. Dark and sweet, who couldn't have imagined?" She winked at Marcello again. He truly and sincerely wished she'd stop doing that. Eight ignored Marcello's discomfort and slipped Munchie a bit of biscuit.

"We were just admiring your home-"Marcello began.

The dumbqueen cooed and fluttered and jostled her bosom. "Oh, this messy old place?" she said, clearly flattered.

"Have you any children about?" Marcello asked, and the dumbqueen burst into a flurry of giggles.

"Well, aren't you the forward one!" She giggled again and fanned herself with her paw. "Not that I object to the idea of having them, mind you."

"I only ask because of the toys," Marcello said, motioning to them.

"The what?" The dumbqueen blinked a few times. "Oh yes, for the boy! Dear me, I had clean forgotten about the lad."

"Do you know where he is, ma'am?" Eight asked, leaning forward eagerly.

The dumbqueen placed a finger against her chin to aid the difficult task that was 'thinking.' "Why, he is back with his family now, I should imagine."

"You mean, you didn't kidnap them?" Eight asked.

The dumbqueen drew herself up haughtily-and there was quite a lot of her to draw up. "I should say not! Such a dreadful business, kidnapping. I do not sit idly by when I am told of kidnappers, I tell you this. Why, that boy didn't wait a day between when I heard of his sad predicament and when he was safely in my home."

Marcello's mind raced to parse this statement and came to an uncomfortable realization. "Of course, not, madam," he said smoothly. "My friend was merely making a joke-kidnapping from the kidnappers, you see." He smiled ingratiatingly at the dumbqueen, who seemed mollified.

"Oh! Yes. Of course. Kidnapping from the kidnappers. How very clever!" She gave an unconvincing laugh to show how she truly understood the play on words.

"You must find your work very rewarding," Marcello said, and the dumbqueen brightened at that.

"Oh, yes! You know, those men tried to pay me for my work, and I said to them 'No thank you, the look on their faces when they learn they're going home is thanks enough for me.' I told them that, I did."

"How admirable," Marcello said. "And these men you speak of, do you know who they are?"

The dumbqueen fluttered and fanned herself again. "Do forgive me; I've no head for names. Not that those men stay for more than a few words, truth, never mind stopping for a cuppa. No manners, that lot, though they are doing the Goddess' work, so it's not my place to say, and they do look so dashing in those uniforms."

Marcello did not flinch or choke on his tea, but he did carefully return the cup and biscuit to his plate before he spoke again. Eight, he noticed, was looking particularly blank.

"Uniforms, madam?" Marcello asked. "Do you recall what they look like?" He continued on quickly when he saw the dumbqueen's flustered look. "Color, perhaps?"

"Blue, of some sort?" the dumbqueen guessed. "Yes, a deep blue, and they have these swishing little cloaks that end right above their altogether," she said, and laughed charmingly.

"Yes, I know the men you speak of," Marcello said. He had begun cursing inwardly midway through the conversation, and saw no reason to stop now.

"It's always nice to hear of friends," the dumbqueen said placidly. "Oh, I beg your pardon. Who did you say you were again?"

"We've come to tell you that you're done now," Eight said quickly, before Marcello could speak. "All the-all the boys have been saved. You don't need to rescue any more children." He paused, then said, "Thank you."

"It's over already?" the dumbqueen asked. "Ah, well, it was exciting, but I'm glad the lads are safe."

"We have to go now, but I'll come visit again, when I've the time," Eight said gently, and Marcello was shocked to realize that Eight truly meant it.

"Oh, aren't you two dears!" the dumbqueen cooed.

She didn't let them go until she'd loaded their arms with enough cakes and pasties to last them for days. Marcello tried to convince himself that the sinking feeling in his stomach was the extra chocolate biscuit he'd choked down.

* * *

"What do you think?" Marcello asked later, when they had returned to camp.

"She seemed nice," Eight said mildly. He was digging around in one of the boxes they rarely used. A slip of pink tongue peeked out from between his teeth.

"Not the-" Marcello groaned. "Yes, she was lovely. Now, what of the church? Why do they-what do they want with-" He groaned again. "Why is it _always_ the church?"

"I have no idea," Eight said, still busily rummaging through the box.

"You are in a suspiciously good mood," Marcello accused.

"The church took the children, so we can probably get them back," Eight said.

"And what makes you think the church isn't in the habit of disposing of prisoners once they have lost their usefulness?"

Eight spared a moment's notice to grin at Marcello. "You didn't."

"More the fool I," Marcello said. "And you should not use me as the Templar's barometer; I detest waste, while many of the clergy revel in it, and _what on earth are you looking for_?" Marcello finally snapped.

"Aha!" Eight cheered and pulled out a bundle of red cloth. He held it up proudly, and Marcello felt the entirety of his stomach sink into his shoes.

"You must be joking. Even if you fit the uniform, even if you had the-" Blast it all, the boy had just produced a missionary's ring "-various effects, you might convince them of your legitimacy for all of the ten seconds it took for you to open your mouth. If your peculiar accent weren't enough to warn them off, your ignorance of the protocols would surely be a sign, and why are you still _smiling_?"

"I'm not the one who'll be wearing this," Eight said simply.

"And what makes you think they won't fire on me at sight were I to approach the abbey?"

Eight shook his head. "Who do you know best at this abbey?"

"Only the abbot and captain of the knights, but they have all seen my face before."

Eight shook his head again. "They all know you as Marcello, the knight and high priest. Could any of them imagine you would return as Francois, the lowly missionary who is looking for a place to rest before he finishes milking the last coin from," Eight pulled a bunnicorn-lined coat from his bag and brandished it at Marcello, "his wealthy and generous foreign patron?"

Marcello's frown deepened.

"Would any of them think you would return to the church, at all?" Eight asked, more softly.

Marcello thought of returning to the church's service, to the site of his greatest failure, and his fingers twitched for his sword, his feet itched to run. "No, they all know I would not return." His voice was surprisingly husky, and he cleared his throat twice.

It was Eight's turn to pause, and the grin faded slowly from his face. "You don't have to go with me."

Marcello scoffed at that. "The abbey is very big on protocols. Like it or not, you can't be rid of me yet." He picked up the ring with the missionary's symbol. It was definitely Angelo's; he recognized the nicks. He wondered where its matching pair was-in Eight's pack, or Angelo's hands still. The bottom of a lake, no doubt. "I'll not be called Francois," he added.

Eight grinned again. "We can think of a better name."

They reached the abbey when the sun was setting and the night bugs had just started to sing. Eight dropped his packs to the ground and started to pull out the materials for their costumes. Marcello placed a hand on his shoulder, and Eight turned at the touch.

"We should wait for tomorrow," Marcello said, and ignored the disappointed look on Eight's face. "They require prior notification or a notarized form to allow passage to the interior sections after dark. Too many encounters with thieves in the night, I'm afraid."

"If you think that's best," Eight said diplomatically.

"No worries, boy," Marcello said, and gave Eight's shoulder a squeeze. "We should have an easy time of it tomorrow; no thief worth his salt would be awake before noon."

Eight's little smile returned at that. Marcello spent the rest of the stolen night trying to ignore the abbey's looming walls and instead make the most of the little time he had.


	5. Chapter 5

**Each Life's Quest  
**

**_part five of five_**

_by volta_arovet_

**_with many thanks to my beta, spacetart. Any and all mistakes or poorly worded sections are due to my ignoring her excellent suggestions.  
_**

* * *

The morning broke too soon. Eight had woken first. He was always the first one awake; why should this day be any different? The boy was out of sight, but he had left behind the folded missionary uniform, the boots, the ring, and a fresh apple on top of the pile. Marcello took a bite of it and frowned at its sweetness.

Marcello was mostly dressed when Eight returned, and his jaw dropped at the sight. Eight was wearing the fur coat, as expected, but he was also wearing a foolish pair of smoked glasses perched on his nose, and he had abandoned his red bandana in favor of a greasy pomade.

"What-a do you think?" Eight asked in a ridiculous accent. "Is my appearance, ah, molto bene?"

Marcello did not cover his eyes or pinch the bridge of his nose, but that was only because his hands were busy fixing his white boots. "You certainly look the part," he said, the 'part' being a foreign monster team owner with money to spare. "So long as you don't speak," he added.

"You do, too," Eight said, "so long as you don't scowl." He leaned in to straighten the hair by Marcello's ear. Marcello grabbed Eight's hand and held it gently.

"I don't know what we'll see in there," he cautioned. "The abbot is more concerned with gold than morals, but the captain of the knights is a true believer. Frankly, I'm not certain which is more dangerous."

Eight nodded his understanding. Marcello did not loose his hand, not yet.

"When this is through," Marcello said, and he truly had to push at the words to get them past his tongue, "you should-we should search for your dragon. If you like."

He expected Eight to beam at that, or flush, or look shocked, but instead, he just looked slightly sad. He leaned in and kissed Marcello once, lightly. "We should go," he said, and headed for the abbey.

* * *

"Good morning, gentlemen!" Marcello called, pitching his voice to a higher tone than usual. His lips were turned into a careless smirk-an expression he'd seen and loathed too many times when Angelo had used it. His step had a bit more swagger to it, and he ran a hand through his short-cropped hair.

Eight, for his part, was playing the role of the foreign tourist to the best of his abilities, staring at the abbey with equal parts curiosity and confusion.

"What business have you here?" the guard asked perfunctorily, and Marcello inwardly breathed a sigh of relief at the lack of recognition. He gave the appropriate salute and received it in kind.

"I have brought a poor sinner in search of absolution," Marcello said, subtly running his thumb across his palm. The guard's eyes widened at the signal and nodded his understanding.

"Yes, yes, very good for the soul, sir," the guard said, stepping aside.

"I always said a little absolution can do anyone good," Marcello drawled as they passed the guard, and he slipped a coin into the guard's hand.

It was another five steps until their next obstacle-two clergymen who were rather curious about the two strangers making their way through the abbey.

"La chieza e bene?" Marcello asked Eight loudly.

"Si, si, tutto bene," Eight replied. Marcello had to force himself not to wince at his accent. The enthusiasm was good, at least, and that would go far to convince those who didn't know the language.

Marcello pretended to be surprised to see the clergymen. "Ah! Hello there! We were just on our way to sign in at the waystation." He smiled ingratiatingly and stuck out a hand. "Giuseppe Firenze, of the Ascanthan Abbey." He motioned to Eight. "My new friend has recently made a good score at the monster arena and wishes to thank the Goddess for his good fortune."

"The Goddess gives in many ways," one of the clergymen said piously.

"We've been on a journey to visit all the major abbeys of the continent, so I was wondering-do you have any special sights here?"

The clergymen looked at each other. "Sights?"

"Oh, you know," Marcello said, flippantly waving a hand. "Hidden gardens, ancient relics, dusty catacombs, that sort of thing."

The clergymen shared another look.

"The abbot knows the history best..." one of them said hesitantly.

Marcello clapped him warmly on the shoulder. "Excellent! And how kind of you to arrange a meeting for us!" He steered the clergymen toward the center of the abbey. "Ottore, e pronto!" he called after Eight, who smiled inanely and hurried to catch up.

The abbot's office was empty when they arrived, so Marcello settled himself in the most comfortable guest chair while Eight admired a large tapestry on the wall.

"He should be back momentarily," one of the clergymen said.

"Always so busy, aren't they?" Marcello said, and debated resting his feet on the desk. It was a very Angelo thing to do, but he decided against it. Best not to push things too far. "Come, sit." Marcello motioned to the other chairs. The clergymen hesitated, unwilling to break the bonds of formality. "Oh, don't just stand there. What are your names?" he asked, although he already knew one.

"Rodrigo," said one, and "Manuel" the other.

Marcello's eyes lit up. "Brother Rodrigo! I thought you looked familiar! How long has it been since you were last in Pickham?"

The shorter of the clergymen choked, and Marcello bit back on a triumphant smile. "I think you have me confused-" Rodrigo began.

"No, I'm certain it was you," Marcello said, giving him a knowing wink. "Lola says she's missed you, by the way."

Rodrigo backed away. "Ah, pardon me, I think I must attend to the gates."

As he headed to the door, Marcello turned to Manuel and said, "Have you met Lola? She's a sweet girl, but after three drinks, she-"

"Perhaps you had best come with me," Rodrigo said loudly, grabbing Manuel and all but forcibly dragging him out of the room.

"Well," Marcello said, the foolish smirk falling from his face, replaced with its usual expression. "That went easier than I expected."

"Buona fortuna," Eight said, and ignored Marcello's annoyed glare.

"Have you found anything of interest?" Marcello asked, making strides towards the abbot's desk.

"Not yet."

He pulled on the desk drawer. It was locked. "Drat. We don't have time for this."

A golden key landed with a clink on the desk. Marcello tried it, and the drawer opened without fuss. He looked at Eight, who was innocently perusing the bookshelf.

"You continue to surprise," Marcello said, almost in admiration.

The drawer was filled with ledgers, all leather-bound with gold filigree. Marcello opened one and saw it filled from page to page with lines of bribes, trades, and acquisitions of questionable morality, all neatly noted in an elegantly-rounded script. The abbot was exactly the type of greedy, corruptible authority Marcello so despised, and so depended on when he was clawing his way through the ranks.

He tsked to himself and sucked at his teeth. "We may be searching the wrong man. Jewels, jobs, priceless relics, but no note anywhere of children." He flipped another page, and was nearing the end of the correct time window. "Even selling the boys wouldn't bring in a tenth of his weekly profits. He doesn't even appear to be in the abbey on the dates of some of the abductions. What the devil are they doing with the children?"

"Ah!" Eight yelped, and Marcello saw the boy scrambling at some scraps of paper that had fallen out of an ancient-looking book. They were folded unevenly, like someone had quickly tucked them into a hiding place.

The notes were barely intelligible, scratched in a spiky, backwards handwriting that leaned to the left. There were some symbols drawn in a circular pattern, many of them crossed out or fixed, with a few question marks dotted across the page. In the margins were scribbled notes, short lists of minerals or supplies, "_wood chair-psbl int.?_" was circled, and under that, sharply underlined, was "_male, 10yo max_."

Marcello felt his heart catch in his throat. "Human experimentation?" He frowned at the patterns. "The theory is beyond me."

"Do you know who?" Eight flipped the page, searching for a name.

Marcello shook his head. "It must be someone of importance, with access to valuable books and theory, someone who would feel comfortable waiting in the abbot's office while working on illicit plans. Someone who-" A thought caught at Marcello's mind. He cracked open the abbot's door and was pleased to see the two clergymen were still within earshot.

"Ah, Rodrigo!" Marcello called out, and grinned inwardly when the man flinched. "Our guest has expressed an interest in supporting the Templar knights as well. I don't suppose you could fetch someone for him to speak with?"

The man looked skeptical. "Our Captain doesn't normally..." but Marcello was already waving that thought away.

"Oh, Captains will rarely meet to press the palm. Hasn't he a Second who could be of assistance?" Marcello suggested. "One on whom he usually foists such tasks?" he prompted when Rodrigo seemed unsure.

"I suppose Esteban..." Rodrigo said slowly.

Marcello clapped his hands. "Yes, that sounds perfect. Fetch him for us, will you?" He shooed Rodrigo off with a little flip of the wrist, then shut the door.

Eight looked at him quizzically.

"Just following a hunch as to whom is the author of our note," Marcello said. "I wouldn't be surprised if the entirety of the knights were behind this, but we've got to catch one of the higher-ups if we're to get any information about where the children are being held."

"Can you get the information?" Eight asked. He started rummaging through his pouches.

"We've come so far on a cold bluff, I don't see why that can't continue," Marcello said a bit proudly.

"You must get it," Eight said.

He pressed something into Marcello's hands. It was a small, silver case. The metal was cold, but he could already feel it warming under his touch. His mouth went dry.

"Oh," Marcello said in a small voice.

He wondered wildly where Eight had found this case. It was unlikely that Angelo had kept it as a keepsake, like the other articles. It was unlikely that _anyone _would want to keep these tools-anyone who was a good person, anyway.

The door slid open again. A Templar knight stepped inside, and Marcello was shocked at the rush of longing that shot through him-not for the uniform or the air of authority, but for how the young man seemed so calm, so confident that he was on the right track in life. There was a sense of purpose about him that few men carried, that Marcello remembered having.

Marcello didn't remember Esteban having that drive when he had met him last, but his memory was correct about the young knight wearing his sword on the sinister side.

"Buon giorno!" Eight said loudly, clasping the knight's hand between his own and shaking briskly. It gave Marcello enough time to compose himself and fall back into his role.

"Yes, yes, very pleased to meet you," Marcello said, smiling ingratiatingly. He would have taken Esteban's hand, but Eight was still shaking it. "Giuseppe Firenze of the Ascanthan Abbey. This is Ottore Principia, the famous Monster Arena player, perhaps you've heard of him?"

Marcello noticed Esteban's slightly panicked look and gave him a pointed stare as if to say, 'I know he's not famous, please go with it.'

"Ah, yes, of course. Such an honor, to be sure."

"As a fellow warrior," Marcello said, letting his voice carry just a hint of irony at his companion's expense, "he wishes to help fund your noble efforts."

Esteban finally rescued his hand from Eight's enthusiastic grip and used it to smooth the front of his uniform. "I'm afraid all donations must go through the abbot, to be distributed as he deems fit," Esteban said, the sweet piety in his voice setting Marcello's teeth on edge.

"Of course, of course, but..." Marcello slid in closer, and noticed that Eight was moving to a less-noticeable position to complement his own. "If the donation were an object or tool particular to the Templars, the abbot wouldn't choose to give it to anyone but yourselves." He could see Esteban's willpower weakening, just a bit. "Surely, you must have some trinket, some tool or article of war you've always wished for but never seemed to have room in the budget? Allow a rich sinner to help your cause."

Esteban smiled for the first time-a weak-willed, foolish little smile that reminded Marcello of Eight for some reason. "We have been wanting a Flying Jenny..."

"Excellent!" Marcello grabbed a pad of paper and quill. "Never heard of the thing, of course, but a Fighting Jenny it is."

"Flying Jenny," Esteban corrected.

"Your pardon. Flying...is that with a 'j' or a 'g'? Or perhaps a 'dj', sounds quite foreign to me..." Marcello pondered vapidly.

"With a 'j'. It's a sort of chair where the legs..." he began to describe, but Marcello cut off his description of the torture device.

"Would you?" he said, holding out the paper and quill.

Esteban took them and neatly printed the name of the device in spiky, backward-slanting letters. Marcello noted the familiar handwriting; so, apparently, did Eight, who slipped away and quietly locked the door behind them.

"Please, do sit down," Marcello said, motioning to the seat.

"No, many thanks," Esteban said, setting the paper back on the desk. "My duties-"

Marcello punched the knight-once in the gut to silence him, and once in the jaw to knock him back. "Sit," Marcello hissed, drawing and placing his sword at Esteban's throat.

He sat there in shock, a comical expression of surprise stuck on his face, and Marcello wondered if it was because of the unexpected attack, or because a missionary had actually used his fist on a Templar.

"Tie him down," Marcello directed Eight, who did so.

"You don't want to scream," Marcello said, very quietly, his voice dropping into his normal octave. "In a moment, you won't be able to scream, but right now, you don't want to scream because if you do, there are only two sorts of people who will come to your rescue: good-hearted people who will be most curious about what you've been up to in the shack under the hill, and your allies, whom we will not hesitate to cut down for the child-stealers they are. Now. Do you know who I am?"

Esteban nodded, unthinking, and winced when the blade bit into his neck. "You're the ones searching for us. From the village."

"Half right," Marcello said as Eight tugged the last knot tight. "Now. We would like to know where the children are. You probably suppose we will use the traditional method of torturing you until you speak."

He opened the silver case and inspected the blades-all gleaming, sharp, in pristine condition. Marcello continued, "You know as well as I do that torture rarely presses someone to tell the truth, so much as it encourages one to say anything which may please those in charge. I generally do not torture to interrogate. I torture to punish."

Marcello selected one of the tools, shaped like a curved pair of scissors, a nutcracker with blades. Its weight was horribly familiar in his hand.

"This is a little-known secret of mine," he said, almost conversationally. "When someone has done something like...well, like what you have done, I make it so you will be able to recognize each other for what you are when you meet."

He took Esteban's right hand and separated the fingers, pulling the smallest away from the others. "You are fortunate. This will not affect your swordplay."

"Don't-" Esteban pleaded. "Please."

"I'm afraid this is non-negotiable," Marcello said. "What I do after this, perhaps you can persuade me one way or the other. Open your mouth." He took a strip of cloth and wadded it into a ball.

Eight was watching him. The boy's face was blank, impassive, unreadable. Marcello thought it strange he had ever believed the boy wore his heart on his sleeve.

When Marcello approached with the gag, Esteban obediently opened his mouth, eyes cast downward.

"No more struggles?" Marcello asked in surprise.

Esteban's eyes flicked up, just for a moment, and they held a resigned recognition. "Against you, Marcello?" he asked, voice cold and dead. "But the children serve a higher cause; I will not give them up."

He did, eventually. It took more time than Marcello had wanted, more tools than he'd liked. Eight watched him the whole time, impassively, and Marcello's hands never shook, never hesitated under his gaze.

There was blood on Marcello's hands and cuffs when Esteban broke, revealing the location of the hidden door beneath the embroidered rug on the floor. There were sigils worked into the grain of the wooden floor, subtle enough that few would notice them at a glance.

Marcello slid the Templar's ring off of Esteban's unresisting hand. He touched the mark shaped like a flame, then pressed the sword and shield at the same time, and finally pressed the ring into the eye-shaped whorl at the center. The floor hummed for a moment, and then the planks parted, revealing a dark staircase.

"Is anyone down there?" Eight called, to Marcello's annoyance. A chorus of young boys' voices answered him. He darted down the stairs without even a nod to Marcello.

"Don't disturb the circle," Esteban said, voice thick and slurred.

"You're in no position to make demands," Marcello reminded him, picking up the gag again.

"Please," Esteban said, and it was a different kind of pleading than before. "We need him now. For our faith to survive, we-"

"I don't care for your excuses," Marcello said.

Esteban started to laugh. "Captain Marcello, forever styling yourself as the hero, when all you're good for is-"

The pommel of Marcello's sword was just as effective at silencing the knight as the gag, Marcello found. Esteban slumped in his chair, which Marcello knocked behind the Abbot's desk, out of sight.

The underhall was dark as Marcello had expected, but lacked the usual community of spiders, ghouls, and dust he remembered in other catacombs. Eight was there, using his golden key to unlock the boys in the cells. He had removed the foolish bunnicorn coat and had placed it on one of the boys' shoulders.

"One's missing," Eight said in lieu of a greeting. Marcello did a mental count of the boys and agreed with Eight's assessment.

"Pieter's in the other room," the oldest boy said. "I saw him yesterday, when they brought me in, but..." The boy frowned. "He's different."

"How so?" Marcello asked. The children turned to look at him, and the closest few drew back. Marcello hid his bloodied hands and cuffs behind his back.

"He didn't recognize me," the boy said, "and all he'd say was that he was sorry. Not sorry like he felt bad he couldn't help, but sorry like it was his fault." He glanced furtively between Marcello and the stairs. "Can we leave? Now? Please?" he said, clearly doing his best to clamp down on a panicked urge to run.

Eight moved in close to the boy, squeezing his shoulder in a comforting but respectful manner. "We'll leave when we're all together, Tomas. We can't leave anyone behind. Can you keep the younger children calm while we help Pieter?"

Tomas nodded, biting his lip. Eight clapped him on the shoulder again before boldly moving into the next room. Marcello followed.

The missing boy was seated on a wooden chair in the center of an elaborate seal drawn on the floor. He looked at them, smiling brightly. "Greetings, Lord High Priest, Prince," he said.

"Wrong on both accounts," Marcello said, voice rough.

The boy cocked his head, smile turning a bit sheepish. "Am I? I apologize. Information is sometimes so hard to come by."

"You aren't Pieter," Marcello said, hand moving to his sword. Eight ignored all this and was bent over, examining the seal.

The boy pressed his palm to his chest. "Pieter sleeps. I am Eagus, the Sage." His eyes lowered. "Forgive me. All this is my fault."

"You compelled them to call for you?" Marcello asked.

Eagus shook his head. "No, that was their fancy, to call the Seven Sages to heal the world's faith. It was only a fancy; the summoning would not work without our consent, and what good sage would dare break the natural cycle of death?"

His words were bitter, and he looked away. "I'm sorry. I'm not like the others. I was so young when I became a sage, so young when I died, I only wanted a taste-" His voice broke off. He locked eyes with Marcello. "Please. Forgive my weakness."

"It's not my place to forgive," Marcello said, his bloody hands twitching.

The sadness faded from the boy's eyes, just a bit. "No, I suppose not. Will you release me?"

"Of course," Eight said. He touched one of the braziers at the far side of the circle. "I think removing these will do it."

"Yes. Thank you." Eagus folded his hands neatly, closing his eyes and leaning back in his chair. "Ah, yes. I have a message for you, from Regnar's heir." He paused. "He said, 'Thank you, Marcello.'"

Marcello's heart caught in his throat. He shook his head as he tried to remember how to breathe. "I don't-I don't understand what he means."

Eagus opened his eyes, smiling helplessly. "Neither do I," he said simply as Eight blew out the last brazier. The boy's eyes closed and he slumped in his chair, breathing deeply as though he had always been asleep.

"Will you take him for me?" Eight asked.

Marcello moved to pick up Pieter, but paused when he looked at his smeared, gummy hands. "I don't want to touch him," Marcello said quietly. "You-"

Eight took one of Marcello's hands and rubbed it softly with a bright yellow cloth. Marcello realized a moment later that it was Eight's coat, that Eight had removed it and was using it as carelessly as a rag. Eight was now only dressed in a deep, Templar's blue.

"I don't love you," Marcello said.

Eight moved on to his other hand.

"I never loved you, never cared at all, it was all about-"

"Angelo. I know," Eight said. He kept his eyes on Marcello's hand, cleaning it with quick, efficient swipes. "But I didn't mind." His eyes flicked up briefly, and they were as dark and affectionate as ever.

Eight released Marcello's hands. "We should go. We need to get the children out of here before anyone raises the alarm. Can you fight while carrying him?"

Marcello's mouth was dry. He had to swallow twice before he could say, "Yes, I believe so."

Eight smiled at him. The expression was blank for all its sweetness. "Good."

Eight left the room. Marcello picked up the child and followed him, and he felt nothing, absolutely nothing.


End file.
